


The Tales of the Mirk Wood

by Huiniao



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 13:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20083012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huiniao/pseuds/Huiniao
Summary: More than five hundred of funny and sinister, uncanny and bloody stories that happened to the Saint-Petersburg's larpers in the period from 1991 to 2000. The history of Larp through the eyes of scoundrels, jeering at people, drunken parties and drug abuse, sects and suicides, debacles and provocations, police raids and government resistance — everything is here.This is the "dark side" of the Peter's larp community — funny, hardcore, and not at all like nowadays'. Almost from the very onset of the movement until the dawn of the new century, as keenly expounded by the demiurges of most of the described  occurences — the Mushroom Elves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Сказки темного леса e-reading.club](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/503518) by Djonny. 

An introduction explaining the design and main idea

  
The winter of 1993 was a cold one. So cold that prepearing for my very first role-play, I slipped on my beanie and put on a greatcoat. I was sixteen, the only games I knew were "durak", crazy eights, spin the bottle, and tag. Those are simple games everyone knows, but rumor spread (and you all know the power of rumor) there were games of other kind.

The word of mouth that reached me that days proclaimed unambiguously: the magic world does exist. It is big and beautiful, Good and Evil manifest themselves there more clearly than in mundane life — the Evil not only through drug addiction and criminals, and Good is something more than a mere abstract concept. These things never got mixed up there, the evil was almost absolute, the good all the more: you could never mistake it for anything once you saw it! As if a great river divided this world into two camps: the everlasting light resided on the eastern bank, while the east was covered in darkness since times immemorial.

  
It happened so that we have sojourned in this world, sailed this river back and forth, ate and drunk to our hearts' desire on the both of its banks. We witnessed a thing or two noone else will be able to tell you, neither a hunter, nor a fisherman. The human mind pales against the power of the true wonders and not every chronicle can describe what had happened. I am a bit sorry, as a tale is but a bleak shadow, and it is impossible to convey the flesh of reality into words. There is only one remedy, which can turn our chronicle into the first-hand impression, make the images move, and notes play — your imagination. It is always like this, the fairy-tales and stories are like smoke, they accompany fire that sometimes flashes and surrounds the people's deeds. A lot of what had happened drowns in this smoke, there is no clarity, and everything you heard before turns out to be just an echo of the real happenings. As memory is similar to an artist, it paints a different picture for everyone.

  
I would not recommend you to judge whether the described further really happenned. Mayhap, it is a caprese inspired to someone during the vespertine dream of a fervent Marwari, a lie in its essense, phrasemongering and untruth. Maybe, a chronicle of events of the days begone, distorted by the jeering mind of the annalist. And maybe you will be able to relive the memory of the events, even if the memory is not yours. Because, if two people look at the sea beach, one through the pink glasses, and the oth through the collimator sight, their impressions will differ slightly.

  
We want to tell is the history of people and opinions, and we ourselves are nothing but a perception lens through which this magical and wonderful world is refracted. The world, which consists of people, and not every one of them wanted to be on the pages of this book. But we don't pity them at all, because that's what the tale is all about — our relationships with other people. Some of these people we hold dear, and we recall them with respect, others did not attain our friendship, some others suffered humiliation from us, someone got his ass kicked, and there also were guys who kicked the shit out of us.

  
All these people do exist in some sense. Maybe they existed in the past, or still exist nowadays, or, as Yogachara buddhists believe, everything exists only as an image in our mind. And if someone won't like our tale because we said bad things about them, this will be the lesson to them. Try to become a better person in the next life, then you will be revered in the fairy-tales.

  
Hence, the below written, as well as the above written, is distributed for fairy-tale purposes. So it should be understood as one, since if it is written that "Alyosha Popovich beaten the Cumans and collected their loot", don't bother asking for the exact place where this happened. Same goes for the magical creatures, if it is said that they overindulged in drinks and drugs, it doesn't mean that the magical creatures urge _you_ to do the same. No. They tell you that if you are up for an adventure, make sure first you are in a fucking fairy-tale!

  
We must warn you, there are moral and immoral fairy-tales, and we have no way of knowing what you will think about this one. We already have used obscene language and will not fucking hesitate to depict the scenes of violence, drug abuse, or a sex act. The heroes of the fabulous scenes which we are going to describe may voice different opinions and views, including ones that can be considered wrong. The editorial stuff will not be held responsible for any bullshit these magical creatures will do or say on the pages of this book. If the magical creatures urge you to do something, don't buy it, if you think this content contains illegal propaganda — stop reading it. Don't give it to children and don't get carried away yourself. Be cautious with the fairy-tails, they can teach you good and bad things, and it's hard to discern which is which right away. So it is better not to learn from fairy-tails at all, but if you did, don't blame them later. Here is an example, once uncle Tony decided to become like Mister Geppetto. But he didn't know the right method and fucked up everything. And though now he has a son named Pinocchio, somehow Tony isn't happy about it.  



	2. Between 1991 and 1993. The dawn over Lorien.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Invalid's story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is what the Sun-faced (1) says about the words that precede the main text: "Epigraphs are like salt in our food. As when a man eats, he does not think about salt, the taste of the meal is far more interesting! But without the salt, it would be entirely a different taste."

"Death to the mortals, all power to the immortals"

It has all began in 1991, when my friend Kostyan started frequenting the bard club "Orient", the one near Vladimirskaya. People there sang songs and drunk port wine, in other words, it was a cultural centre accompanied by string music and vodka. A disabled guy with withered leg stood out among the local crowd, he introduced himself as Phill. He used to add too: "Not just Phill, but Phill the Three-Legged Elf."  
This guy told my friend such things that Kostyan came to our biology club once and asked me:  
"Have you read Tolkien?"  
My friend is shorter than me, but built significantly stronger. Athletics school and right yard mates were the two factors that formed his worldview. His distinctive feature, I would note, was intransigence, he was one of those guys who were always picking up fights. It did not do him much good: by the age of 14, he had exactly fourteen scars on his head. But even those who had managed to defeat him could not say the victory was a cheap one.  
“Tokien?” I repeated mechanically, and then added "No."  
We were sitting in the storeroom in the Rossi's pavilion, which is situated on the street named after the same architect. In about a hundred meters, this street bumps into Nevsky Prospect and the Eliseevsky emporium.  
"We must read it," explained Kostyan. "If we read it really quick, can jump on the bandwagon and see some stuff we could only dream 'bout. Some life-changing stuff."  
"But is it a sure thing? I asked him, "can't be bothered to read anything for no good reason."  
"The Invalid swears the thing is real." Kostyan answered. "Actually, he should be here soon."  
"What is it all about anyway?" I interrupted him.  
"Well," my friend paused to think. "It's hard to say. Sort of, people go to the forest, divide into groups, and fight each other."  
"Holly fuck", I was surprised . "Why go to the forest though? In my hood, you just need to go to the Swamp or Leaf (2). You will get twatted and have your watches ripped off as a bonus. No need for the forest at all."  
"You've got it all wrong." Patiently explained my friend. "No one says anything about gettin' twatted. We will go there..."  
"You've gone fucking crazy, mate." I stopped him. "We will both have our heads removed in this forest. And there will be no hospital when you will get your head smashed again. There are only two of us."  
"Will you fucking listen what I say for a minute, you moron? I told you, this is a special thing. But we can't get it yet cause the Invalid said we should read Tolkien first.  
"What exactly are we supposed to read?" I came to terms with the situation. "And where can we get it?"  
""The Lord of the Rings", they should have it in the district library."  
"Gotcha", I agreed, "Lead me, show me this Invalid of yours."

We entered the park through the back door leaving behind everything: the class where frogs were anatomised, bookshelves, and the rows of school-desks. Our previous hobbies, my ornithology and Kostyan's hydrobiology, stayed there. The doors swung open and I saw snow-covered steps and a scrawny guy leaning on crutches. He muffled himself up in a capron jacket, smoking a cigarette while waiting for us. I was so scared I first thought he was at least 5 years older than us.  
"Phill the Three-Legged Elf." He introduced himself to me.  
"Vanya." I introduced myself too.  
"Go ahead," suggested Kostyan. "Spill it out."  
"Here's the thing..." Invalid started talking, and sat swiftly right on the edge of the marble parapet. I grasped what he told us in broad brushstrokes. First of all, there was a Tolkien's book, "The Lord of the Rings". Invalid was taking a lot about the book, but since I hadn't read it yet, I didn't understand much. Second, there were people who had read this book, for instance, Invalid himself. This sounded plausible to me. Next, Invalid said that such people organised events called "Hobbits' games", the thing was new, started barely a few years ago.  
As for the events, every participant chooses a role to his liking (not just any role, but a role from the Tolkien's book) and then they defend their interests somewhere in the forest with the help of swords, battleaxes, shields, and spears. All of these you should do yourself from scratch. The battles, as Invalid explained, were make-belive, the swords were wooden, the strokes were blown half-hartedly, so, apparently, there were no homicides. However, the Invalid kept stressing it, this was not a place for completely unskilled. One should be able to fight using these weapons.  
"You guys can fence?" He asked finally.  
In school age, the power of observation becomes keener due to the constant and intense socialising with the evil-minded classmates. The need to pay close attention to the person you are talking to becomes clear. I was attentive enough, so I was sure that when he was asking his provocative question, Invalid was prepared to hear surprised "no". But it messed up.  
"So can you, or not?" Phill asked again when he noticed our confusion, as I looked at Kostyan while he looked at me.  
"We can." Answered Kostyan determinately.  
"Sure thing." I supported him.  
Here is the thing: many parents have a habit of forcing their children to take as many extracurricular classes as possible. These days we were attending biology club, before, we used to take fencing classes, I had been practicing saber fighting for three years in "Mousquetaire" and Kostyan had been training rapier for four years in Children and Adolescence Creativity Centre. So we were certain we could fence. That's what we told Invalid.  
"What, fencing as a sport?" He laughed. "That's absolutely ugly and has nothing to do with the stick fighting."  
I agreed with Invalid, though I couldn't understand why he was explaining us this. In my class, our coach used to whack everyone with a sport saber, and some days he used a stick. So I knew the difference between the two since childhood, I even believed I was more competent than Invalid in this department. After all, he asked us whether we could fence, not whether we could fight with sticks.  
We would have answered that we had some nice dry sticks hidden behind the pavilion, which were as thick as a hand and about 5 feet long. Sometime ago someone tied them up to the trees, we untied them and hid behind the pavilion. On fine days, we battered each other with them, for pleasure and to feel the joy of living. And Invalid was absolutely right, it had nothing in common with fencing.  
"You should've just said so," I declared. "That we need to fight with sticks. That we can too."  
"You can nothing." Phill stood up and lifted his crutches. "Here. Look."  
He started to flourish the crutches around, twirl them, squat on one leg, and do many other things that left me in deep shock. So absurd and strange, if not to say gibing it all looked. But Invalid, it seems, was of different opinion.  
"Take your sticks" - he suggested, "And attack me." We exchanged glances with Kostyan.  
"Are you sure" Kostyan asked "That you want it?"  
"Ah!" Phil exclaimed. "So have you made up your minds?"  
He waited there while we went to pick up our sticks. As I was taking them out from the stache, I decided to ask:  
"So, Kostyan, do we have to batter him with the sticks in earnest?"  
"Do you want to be accepted or not?" Kostyan asked strictky.  
"Well..." I mused, imagining a bunch of unfamiliar people battering me with such sticks in the forest, "I'm not sure. Although probably..."  
"Cut the hussle." Kostyan interpreted my reluctance wrongfully. "You think what, we can't handle a disabled guy?" Phill ocupied a position on the pavilion's steps. He wielded the crutches menacingly, standing on the iced stoned floor and looking at us as we approached him. I was to attack first in order to create a diversion. Here's how I did it: I jumped and poked at him with the stick haphazardly, Phill dodged, caught the blow with the crutches, stroke my blows aside, but he let the moment pass and overlooked Kostya.  
My friend hit him with horrendous power, aming at the only leg Phill was standing on. It was a good overhead strike, sweeping but exact, like a cricket bunt.  
"Oh." was all I could say when Phill swang the crutches for the last time before falling backwards from the steps.  
"So, what do you think, are we suitable?" Kostyan asked, approaching still lying Phill. "Were we any good?"  
"What have you done, you bastards," Phill croaked, "What have you done?"  
"Why?" I asked him, "What's wrong?"  
"And when will we go to the game," Kostya added, "soon?"  
"Never." Phill answered. "You can't fight. You hear me, never!" He somehow managed to stand up, collected his crutches, and stumbled to the park exit, limping on both of his legs.  
"Hey, wait, but we..." Kostyan tried to change his mind.  
"No way," Phill muttered, "This is not for you. We are better off without you."  
"Come on, screw him." I advised, "You've heard what he said, they are better off without us."  
"We'll see about that!" My friend answered, I gathered from the tone that he wasn't very pleased. "Can't believe this!" He turned to me. "That's all your fucking fault!"  
"Are you fucking serious?" I asked, surprised. "How comes it's all my fault?"  
"Then who suggested battering that guy with the sticks?" asked Kostyan.  
"I will tell you who," I spoke, looking at the Phill who almost have reached the exit. "He did."  
"Okay," admitted Kostyan. "No hard feelings."  
"What about Tolkien?" I asked. "Probably, no point to read it now?"  
"As you wish," Kostyan answered, "but I think there is a point. There are other people apart from this Invalid, someone else will pop up. We will wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Here and further the Sun-faced's words are cited from arshaib vahattab nu babertzim, «honey of tales».  
2\. That days there was a nice tradition, each yard had its own name.  
(T/N: by "yard" here is meant a parking/recreation area near an apartment building. E.g.: http://bloknot-volgodonsk.ru/thumb/800x0xcut/upload/iblock/339/kygxgusenwo.jpg).


End file.
